


At the Table of the Holly King

by BootsnBlossoms



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Asexual Stiles, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Fluff, Future Fic, Holidays, M/M, Pagan Festivals, Yule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With a groan, Derek let himself be pulled to his feet. “Yule?” he repeated. “Oh, right — the solstice druid thing.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Table of the Holly King

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays! I'm taking a few days off from the angst-fest that is Cor Tenebrae to celebrate the holidays with my family. In the meantime, enjoy this fluffy bit of future fic, in which Derek and Stiles are together and most of the new characters from 3b, who we have names but no backgrounds for yet, are a part of the pack. Did I mention it was fluffy? Like, the most tooth-achy sweet thing I've ever written? Yeah.
> 
> Thanks again to the ever-patient, ever-brilliant [FlutterFyre](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FlutterFyre/pseuds/FlutterFyre) (aka [KissofFlame](http://kissofflame.tumblr.com)) for her beta work.
> 
> Enjoy!

Derek yawned as he pulled into his driveway, a sense of exhaustion crashing over him as he put his car in park and shut it off. There was no _real_ reason for him to be so damn tired; work at the station had been slow and uneventful, and the Sheriff had even had the time to finally give Derek his 90-day evaluation. It was all good things, of course; as a werewolf, Derek made an exceptional deputy. His only poor marks were for citizen interactions; apparently, Derek didn’t pander enough.  

He couldn’t _wait_ to tell Stiles that little gem.

Well, technically, the evaluation paperwork referred to it as “customer satisfaction”, but Derek didn’t care. Mrs. Andes had been pissed about her smashed garden gnome sculptures, and Derek just hadn’t been able to drum up any sympathy for her. He’d just been, well, _tired_.

With a grunt, Derek popped open the car door and climbed out. The sun had set a half hour ago, even though it was barely past 5:00pm, and the woods were inky black. Even the glow of the cottage lights couldn’t quite break through the black, and the only reason Derek managed not to trip on the not-quite-straight pavers of the walkway to the front door was because of his enhanced sight. He made a mental note to suggest to Stiles that they consider redoing the walkway, this time professionally. 

The cottage glowed warmly, and something inside of Derek settled as he stepped onto the front porch. _Their_ porch. _Their_ cottage. He toed his boots off at the door and barely resisted the urge to cry out _Honey, I’m home!_ as he walked inside.

Not that he needed to. No sooner had Derek hung his jacket and gunbelt at the door than Stiles flung himself across the small, cozy living room and into Derek’s arms.

“You’re back!” Stiles exclaimed cheerfully. “Dad called and said you had your three month review today. How did it go? Major bonus points on all scores for being better at everything than anyone on the force? Except the Sheriff himself, of course.” Stiles grinned, and Derek was helpless to do anything but grin back and let himself be dragged to the couch.

“It went fine,” Derek said as Stiles gave him a shove. He chuckled as he fell into the overstuffed cushions, careful not to hurt Stiles as he pulled him down as well. “Though apparently I’m not a ‘customer service-oriented’ individual.”

Stiles’ reaction was about what Derek expected it to be — he gave Derek an incredulous look before he burst out laughing. Derek pulled him closer, reveling in the feel of how Stiles laughed with his whole body, how he unabashedly pressed the side of his face to Derek’s chest, seeking warmth and a heartbeat. Some of the day’s tension unwound from Derek’s shoulders, and he buried his nose in Stiles’ hair.

“Guess that’ll teach you to growl at Mrs. Andes about her gnomes,” Stiles snickered, breath ghosting hotly through Derek’s shirt.

“Who gets upset about _garden gnomes_?” Derek defended, running a hand up Stiles’ back.

“Someone who spent hours hand-sculpting and hand-painting them?” Stiles offered, tipping his head up and back just enough to tempt Derek into nuzzling at Stiles’ neck. “Someone who filed the complaint solely to oggle the hot new deputy? Someone who has a garden gnome feti _sshhohmygod_ …”

It had been been two years since Derek had come back from his walkabout with Cora, having decided that he just couldn’t leave the ragtag pack of teenagers alone to defend Beacon Hills. Two years since Stiles had punched him in the face, _hard_ , with enough power behind it to knock Derek on his ass, and Derek had made the wise choice to laugh at the action rather than hit back. Two years since Stiles had responded by chasing him to the ground and kissing him.

They’ve kissed a lot since then, and even now, two years later, Stiles’ breathless appreciation of Derek’s mouth was still one of his favorite sounds _ever_. It didn’t take much to coax Stiles onto his lap, though Stiles did get Derek’s uniform shirt off before he started kissing him again. 

Similar to how he laughed, Stiles kissed with his whole body. Though he had never grown out of his nervous energy, even when he left his teen years behind, he had learned to channel it better. His hands roamed everywhere over Derek, not fidgeting but soothing. He massaged Derek’s shoulders, caressed his sides, combed his long fingers through Derek’s short hair. He pressed himself along the hard curve of Derek’s body, tucked close from hips to chest, as he nipped and sucked at Derek’s bottom lip.

It was slow, sensual, and not necessarily sexual. Derek relaxed into it, keeping his own hands and arms around Stiles’ waist, enjoying the attention. He opened his mouth to Stiles, who took advantage of the opportunity to deepen the kiss. It wasn’t long, however, before Stiles pulled back, expression soft and satisfied.

“Feel better?” he asked, bringing his hands back up and into Derek’s hair.

“I wasn’t feeling bad before,” Derek reminded him.

“But something’s off,” Stiles pointed out, bringing one hand down to brush along Derek’s cheekbone. “What is it?”

Derek shrugged. “I’m just tired lately. I don’t know why, but I feel... slow. Run down.”

“Oh!” Stiles said, sitting up in sudden excitement. “Well, I might just have an idea about that.”

Derek hummed in acknowledgement but pulled Stiles back again, wanting to hang onto his warmth as long as possible. “I doubt any idea you have will make _less_ tired,” he said, smirking. 

But Stiles just laughed. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

“Forgot what?” Derek asked, pulling back. He knew he wasn’t the _best_ at remembering dates and events, but he had the major ones memorized and it wasn’t anyone’s birthday, or anniversary, or date of death, as far as he could remember.

Stiles chased Derek, leaning up to give him a quick, amused kiss on the nose before climbing off his lap. “Yule!” he exclaimed cheerfully, holding his hand out. “Everyone will be here in about an hour.”

With a groan, Derek let himself be pulled to his feet. “Yule?” he repeated. “Oh, right — the solstice druid thing.”

“The solstice druid thing, right,” Stiles repeated with an exasperated chuckle. He pulled Derek into combined kitchen/dining room, and Derek stopped at the doorway, mouth open in surprise. 

When they had designed the cottage, they’d chosen a design that kept the living area small and cozy while letting the kitchen serve as the entertainment space. The stove, counters, fridge, and cupboards all lined the far left of the room, which was twice as large as the living area. a large island — big enough to seat six people, with a grill and another sink in the middle —  separated the cooking side from the dining side. On the right was a long wooden dining table, surrounded by enough well-padded and sturdy dining chairs to seat their entire pack of 13 hungry werewolves and humans.

On an ordinary day, the room could feel too cold and open for Derek’s taste — all white tiles and sage accents. But Stiles had apparently been _very_ busy while Derek was at work. Sprigs of holly, oak, pine, and mistletoe lined the entryways and the shelves, with an occasional deer horn thrown in. The table was similarly decorated, though Derek was relieved to see that the mistletoe had been left out. There were what looked like fresh discs of birch even placed along the center of the table among the sprigs, each one with a hole drilled in the middle for a white candle. If Derek looked carefully enough, he could see minifigures of pentagrams, green man faces, women’s faces from young to middle aged to old, and more scattered in the greenery. He reached out and stroked the leafy cheeks of the green man and gave Stiles a curious look.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know the story of the Holly King,” Stiles said with a chuckle as he grabbed a large stack of white plates. He stood in front of Derek and held them out, grinning.

“I didn’t even know Deaton was a druid until recently,” Derek defended, taking the stack. “It’s not exactly like he’s ever been forthcoming with the lore.”

This time, Stiles outright laughed as he grabbed his own stack of slightly smaller plates. “So true,” he said agreeably, nudging Derek to start putting the plates out. “Even now, as his emissary-in-training, I feel like getting him to tell me anything in detail is like pulling teeth.”

Derek moved around the table, setting a plate at each of the chairs, and Stiles followed behind, setting a white salad bowl on top of the plate. “You know, he wasn’t even going to celebrate. I guess he puts together an altar for each of the solstices and sabbats, and does some sort of ritual, but that’s not a party,” Stiles scoffed. “But in my shiny new position as pack emissary-in-training, I’ve met up with more than a few Wiccan badasses, and their stories of celebrations are enough to curl your toes. I mean, Yule isn’t exactly known as a party holiday, but it’s a good place to start. Because Beltane? _Holy shit_.”

With a laugh, Derek set the last plate down. The familiar cadence of Stiles’ voice and the rapid-fire delivery of his words dissolved the last of Derek’s tension. He leaned against the island as he watched Stiles gathered a pile of tea-colored linen napkins, a stack of printed papers, and a bowl of what looked like tiny wrapped sage bundles. 

“But the other thing,” Stiles continued, “is the symbolism of it. Yule is the longest night of the year — the middle of winter, when everyone feels run down and tired. And we’re _always_ fighting. We’re _always_ running around, chasing the bad guys. Sometimes I feel like it’s never going to get better.” He paused and shrugged, then starting laying down a napkin, a printout, and a sage bundle on top of each of the place settings. “It’s nice to be reminded that the longest night is never eternal.”

Derek waited until Stiles finished his task before coming up behind him to wrap his arms around Stiles’ stomach. “I think it’s a great idea,” he murmured in Stiles’ ear. 

And it really, really was. Though they’d all settled into something of a routine in dealing with the horrors the Nemeton seemed to continuously bring them, that didn’t mean it was necessarily healthy. Derek’s hours at the station were spent scouring new cases for any sign of supernatural interference, trying to get a head start on new bad guys before _real_ havoc could begin. Stiles attended the local university, but wrote his papers almost exclusively in the context of myth and lore so he could pull double duty for the pack. Allison was now in her father’s business, always finding and practicing new ways to kill everything from demons to harpies to sprites — and selling them to other hunters. Scott and Isaac didn’t even pretend to do anything more than work at their respective jobs — veterinarian's assistant and physician's assistant  — and deal with the things that were drawn to their town. Only Lydia had managed to even come close to escaping, and that was only to California Polytechnic, where she was only a day’s drive away in case her unique skills were needed. Even the newest members of the pack, picked up over the course of the last two years, didn’t really have lives outside of pack business. Jobs came and went for the formerly packless betas and omegas, but they could always be relied upon to come help in a fight.

But even if they all had adjusted to it, that didn’t mean it wasn’t hell.

Stiles leaned back into Derek’s chest. “All the rituals I looked at were really long, and required a lot of people to speak, so I kinda shortened it up and made it more relevant. I hope Deaton doesn’t mind. Not that he gets a say. He refused to tell me _anything_ at all about how these things should go, so he doesn’t get to criticize.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Derek soothed, stepping back and rubbing at Stiles’ upper arms until his heartbeat, which had started to pick up, settled again. “What do you need me to do?”

“Ummmm…” Stiles stepped away and picked up a basket from the counter to set on the table. Derek leaned to look inside, surprised to find it full of crusty rolls etched with runes. “I don’t have much left to do. You take a shower, change into your civvies. Everyone will start trickling in soon.”

“You made these?” Derek asked in surprise. The rolls smelled heavenly, full of feta cheese, herbs, and spices.

“Impressed?” Stiles replied with a grin. “I’ve been at this since you left this morning. I didn’t think I was going to like it, cooking and decorating and being the pagan Martha Stewart, but it’s been…”

“Nice? Borderline normal?” Derek offered. He trailed Stiles back to the stove, then laughed as Stiles picked up a serving tray full of open bottles filled halfway with dried plants, crystal shards, and a rolled up bit of paper that stuck out the top. “Borderline being the operative word, of course.”

Stiles stuck his tongue out at Derek. “Go. Shower. Put on your comfiest clothes. They’ll be here soon.”

 

~~~

 

The sound of laughter and the clanking of glasses and serving bowls greeted Derek when he stepped out of the shower. He smiled as he walked over to his dresser, feeling a sense of contentment wash over him at the feeling of pack being gathered here, in his home, to celebrate a holiday together. Though Scott was the Alpha now — and Derek honestly didn’t mind not having that particular burden on his shoulders anymore — the cottage had been built with pack gatherings in mind. Between the purposeful design of the cottage and Stiles’ various experiments in safety and protection wards and charms, there was nowhere else in Beacon Hills safer or more comfortable for a bunch of supernaturals to relax and have a good time together.

“Yes, okay, it’s venison that Derek killed for me, but I let a professional butcher do all the icky parts, and it’s been roasting in my slowcookers for an entire day now, so it’s not gamey! You’ll like it, Lydia, just trust me on this!” Stiles argued downstairs, and Derek smirked at the thought of the unimpressed look Lydia was probably giving Stiles about now.

Though the main floor of the cottage was open for their friends and family to relax in, the loft was strictly off-limits to everyone but Stiles and Derek, so Derek didn’t bother going back to the bathroom to change. He threw the towel on the bed and pulled on his most comfortable jeans — the ones with holes in the knees. It took him a minute to find the shirt he wanted because it was tucked in Stiles’ own drawer rather than in Derek’s. It was a long sleeve, maroon, cotton t-shirt, soft in the way that only came from a hundred washings, with holes in the sleeves for his thumbs. It smelled pleasantly of Stiles.

“Derek!” Stiles shouted up at the loft. “Would you get down here and explain to Lydia that it doesn’t get much more organic, GMO-free than a wild-caught deer, please?”

Derek snorted as he padded down the stairs in his bare feet. “I’m not sure that’s true. A wild deer might be spending a fair amount of time munching in farmers’ fields, which, around here, aren’t usually pesticide-free and non-GMO.”

“Hey!” Stiles protested, smacking Derek in the chest with the back of his hand as he headed back to the cooktop. “Not cool, dude.”

Derek shrugged and smirked, then turned to Lydia. “Welcome back,” he greeted, giving her a quick hug. She smiled up at him, and Derek was struck by just how much she’d finally settled into herself. She put much less effort into her appearance, and though she still looked gorgeous, it was in a busy-college student way. Her hair was pulled back, her makeup was more in the minimalist side, and she hadn’t bothered with more than a designer, but comfortable, skirt and t-shirt.

“Thanks. DiffyQ has been the most annoying brand of busywork _ever_ , so I’m looking forward to drowning my irritation in carbs and sugar,” she said with a shrug. “How’s the crime fighting going?”

“Good,” Derek replied easily, scanning the rest of the crowd. “There was an incident over garden gnomes, but other than that, it’s been pretty quiet.”

“Garden gnomes?” Allison asked, walking up to them. Derek marvelled at how far the two of them had come; he wasn’t tempted to take a step back away from her when she’d approached, and wasn’t stiffening with the urge to draw a weapon. Small steps. “Those are a thing?”

“No,” Derek said with little laugh. “Actual garden gnomes. The ugly, easily-broken sort.”

“Sounds riveting,” Allison laughed. “Did you catch the bad guy?”

“I maintain that Mrs. Andes broke them herself as an excuse for a much better type of eye candy to decorate her lawn,” Stiles interrupted from where he was setting plates of food on the table. 

Scott and Isaac snickered, and Derek just rolled his eyes.

“I’m going to have to side with Stiles on this one,” the Sheriff interrupted, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Melissa, standing next to him, shook her head. “No, really. She just seemed to forget that a pretty face doesn’t always, or even frequently, come with a pretty personality attached.”

Derek held a hand up to his chest, pretending to be affronted. “Are you saying I’m not pretty?”

Stiles slid into Derek’s space, lifting Derek’s arm to drape it around his shoulders. He turned enough to block Derek’s view of most of the rest of the kitchen, then leaned in for a kiss that wasn’t much more than the brushing of dry lips. Derek felt his heart speed up even at that little caress, and little snickers from the pack echoed around the room.

It didn’t take long for everyone to move their conversations to the table; only Derek and Stiles were left standing while the rest of the group chatted animatedly with each other. Stiles had Derek pouring wine while he finished moving the food from the fridge, oven, and stovetop to the table. 

“All right!” Stiles said, clapping his hands together excitedly. “First, thank you to everyone for coming! I know it was kind of late notice, but I think we all need this. As your freakishly sharp noses can probably tell, there is, uh, a _lot_ of food. Root vegetable salad, squash soup, sweet potatoes with cranberries, Turkish rolls, slow-roasted venison, mashed potatoes, and, uh, more pies, cookies, and cakes than I care to admit.”

Isaac coughed in an effort to hide his laugh, and Stiles shrugged sharpley then starting waving his hands. “Dude, you just don’t understand! I’ve never cooked a pastry in my life, and once I figured out how easy it is, I just… uh…”

“Kept going?” Lydia offered.

Chuckles erupted from around the table.

“Whatever,” Stiles said, giving the group a determined look. “And you forget, I _know_ how much werewolves eat. It’s not like there are going to be leftovers.”

 _Damn shame_ , Derek thought. Though maybe now that Stiles had starting cooking, and found that he liked it and was actually pretty good at it, maybe Derek could find a way to bribe him into continuing.

“But as you can tell by the sage bundles, candles, jars, and instructions on your plate, we’re going to a little group ritual thing first.”

Derek was impressed that no one groaned; in fact, most of the people at the table looked curious. As much as he bitched about it, Stiles followed Deaton’s example when it came to magic. Nothing flashy, nothing obvious unless it was absolutely necessary. A few of the pack members had seen him set wards and cast charms, but that was about it.

“So, what we’re doing is pretty simple, actually. Everyone has a part, and it’s highlighted on your paper. We’ll read it out and then we’ll do our spell. I’ll start.” Stiles sat down, and the room was filled with the sound of shuffling papers as each person picked up their script.

Stiles cleared his throat. “On the Winter Solstice, the darkest of nights, the Goddess becomes the Great Mother and once again gives birth to the Sun and the new yearly cycle, bringing new light and hope to all on Earth. We gather tonight to await the new light.” He picked up the lighter he’d left next to his plate and lit his candle. Then he passed the lighter to Scott.

Scott shook his paper out and gave Stiles a look, but read without prompting. “We light this fire in your honor Mother Goddess. You have created life from death, warmth from cold. The Sun lives once again.” Then he lit the candle in front of his plate.

Lydia snatched the lighter with a grin and leaned forward to light her own candle. “On behalf of the Maiden. Young and free, fresh as springtime. Yet within her a yearning stirs to create and share and so she becomes…”  
  
“The Mother,” Melissa finished, a soft smile on her face as she accepted the lighter and lit her own candle. “She brings forth the fruit of her creativity. Yet an ancient prophet once told her, as she stood with her son, a sword shall pierce her heart also, and she knew that she would become…”  
  
“The Crone. The ancient wise one, Lady of Darkness.” Kira gave Stiles an annoyed look as she read, but Stiles shrugged helplessly, waving his hands in a gesture that meant _who else would I pick?_ True enough, Derek thought. There wasn’t anyone that fit the description, sadly. She took the lighter from Melissa and lit her candle. “Thus, the triple goddess who brought forth that special child so long ago, also anointed him for burial — a bright light, the Oak King, that grew and was sacrificed to be reborn as a new light, the Holly King.”  
  
Derek cleared his throat and looked at his highlighted bit as he lit his own candle. “Ancient God of the forest, we welcome you. Return from the shadows. The wheel has turned, and we call you back to warm us. May you shine brightly upon the Earth.” His candle’s flame sparked red for a moment when it lit, and Stiles chuckled.  
  
“Yule is the end of the old solar year and the beginning of the new one,” the Sheriff read, expression unimpressed. His candle didn’t even flicker as it lit. “Traditionally, the end of the year is a time to look back and reflect. It is a time to look ahead to the future, to make plans and set goals.”  
  
Stiles beamed at the pack, and Derek felt a tug of pride and satisfaction. “Great, you guys! Halfway done. Okay, um, on your piece of paper, write something you hope to accomplish during the coming year. Technically we’re supposed to do the whole Yule log thing, but that’s just too much fire and coordination for thirteen people. So I prepared charm bottles for each of you. When you’re done rolling up your slip, stick it in the bottle and recork it.”  
  
There were no jokes or snickers, and as Derek surveyed the pack, every single member seemed lost in thought as they stared down at their papers and wrote on them. Clearly, they were taking this seriously.

Derek himself was at a loss for what to write. He had his cottage, built on his family’s land (and strategically far away from the site of his now-demolished old family home). He had Stiles. He had a new career that he loved and gave him both a sense of purpose and a way to help the pack.

After a moment of quiet, Derek looked up to see that he was the last one to not have written anything on his paper. Stiles was looking at him with satisfaction, and the Sheriff with exasperated fondness. Derek swallowed and wrote down his goal in tiny, precise print that he hoped no one could see, and stuffed it in the bottle.

“All right. You lushes have any wine left?” Stiles asked, and embarrassed chuckles went up from the table as people started holding up empty glasses. Derek stood and grabbed bottles of red and white to open and pass around as everyone chatted with each other about what they’d written on their scraps. 

Once everyone was freshly in possession of full glasses, Stiles waved his hands and whistled to interrupt the conversations. “Awesome. Now.” He lifted his glass and waited until everyone else did the same. “We toast the new year and in token of its promise. We consecrate these charms as a focus for the energies through which we accomplish our tasks and manifest our desires during the coming cycle.” He dipped a couple fingers in his glass and shook them over his bottle, letting the droplets fall on the paper. Everyone else followed suit, giggling as they spattered each other with wine. Even Lydia didn’t complain about the staining potential.

“Isaac?” Stiles prompted.

“Oh, right. Uhhh…” Isaac looked around for the lighter, and the Sheriff leaned forward to hand it to him. The Isaac picked up his paper and gave it a once over before he started reading. “You who have died are now reborn. Lend us your light through the winter months as we await the spring.” He carefully lit his candle, then passed the lighter to Allison.

“My thanks to you all for your care and devotion,” she read out with a serious expression as she lit her candle.  
  
“He who has died is alive again today. He fell into deep darkness, and knew death,” Danny read, eyes sharp and intent on his lines. “But, ablaze with glory, the Sun was reborn to start again the cycle of death and birth, and the turning of the wheel.” 

Parrish watched as Danny lit his candle, and waited to start reading until his lit his own. “We are born again. We shall live again. The Sun has been reborn through the Mother Goddess. With him, we each are reborn in kind. So mote it be.”  
  
Meredith looked around as soon as Parrish quit reading, then snagged a roll. “This food and this wine is the blessing of the God and Goddess to our bodies.” She set down her paper then took the lighter to light her candle. 

“Thank you most gracious Lady for your freshness of spirit, your nurturing care, your infinite wisdom. Live within each of us throughout the coming year,” Oliver read, cheeks staining with a blush. He was the newest to the pack and not quite used to the idea that paganism wasn’t something to be made fun of, but revered. Derek didn’t blame him.

“Thank you Bright Lord for the light you have brought to us this night,” Stiles finished, smiling at the thirteen members of the pack and the thirteen lit candles. He lifted his own, then drizzled the wax all over the cork of his bottle, sealing it. He raised his eyebrows until the rest followed suit. “May we carry it within us throughout the coming year.”

 

~~~

 

Derek washed the last pan, surveying his work with satisfaction. Stiles had done a remarkable job of cleaning up after himself during the cooking process itself, so all that had been left for Derek was to load the dishwasher with the dinner dishes and to wash out the serving pans. Derek didn’t mind doing the dishes, though; it gave him time to think about the dinner and what he wrote on his paper. Not just to give himself the time to reflect on it and realize just how much he wanted it, but why he wanted it. And how to explain it to Stiles. 

A familiar _whoomph_ of air rushing from their mattress echoed down from the loft, and Derek imagined how Stiles must have thrown himself on the bed, limbs flailing wildly, to have hit it that hard. He finished drying the pot to put it away, then followed Stiles upstairs.

Imagination proved to be not so distant from reality: Stiles was spread widely across their queen-sized mattress, fingers and toes hanging off the edge as he buried his nose in his pillow. Derek took a moment to appreciate the long, smooth lines of Stiles’ naked back before he shed his own clothes.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Stiles moaned pathetically. “No one ever mentioned that cooking for two dozen people could be as intense as a cardio set. I ache _everywhere_.”

Derek chuckled as he pulled off the last of Stiles’ clothes — jeans and boxers — before walking into the bathroom to retrieve a bottle of massage oil. Derek was still new to the act of massage, but if Stiles’ word was anything to go by, he was already very, _very_ good at it.

“Not that it wasn’t worth it,” Stiles continued when Derek came back. “That went well, right?”

“It was perfect,” Derek said warmly as he climbed over Stiles’ body to straddle his upper thighs. “The pack really needed that. You could feel some of the exhaustion bleed off them as they wrote down their goals and sealed them in. They felt more energetic, and happier, tonight than they have in a long time.”

“Really?” Stiles asked, craning his neck to look at where Derek was warming oil between his hands. “I mean, that’s what I thought too, but then again, it could have just been wishful thinking on my part.”

“It wasn’t wishful thinking,” Derek assured him. He leaned down and started rubbing the oil into Stiles’ shoulders, and Stiles let his head fall back on the pillow with a thump. “It was genius.”

Stiles groaned, loud and appreciative, as Derek’s fingers started chasing away the kinks in his muscles. “Thank you.”

“When’s the next celebration?” Derek asked as he indulged himself in pampering Stiles’ body. “You said there are more?”

“Eight sabbats total,” Stiles breathed out, all but melting into the bed. “One roughly every moon and a half.”

Derek hummed in acknowledgement, thinking that regular sabbat celebrations might be just what the druid ordered for their pack. He worked his hands down Stiles’ shoulders, his back, his glutes, wondering if he should bring the topic up with Scott or if Stiles would just do it anyway without even bothering to ask his friend. Knowing Stiles, he’d probably just declare his intent to have regular celebrations and Scott would go along with it without question.

“I know you worry about it,” Derek said after long, quiet moments. “But you’re doing an amazing job. Much better than Deaton did with us. You’re a great emissary.” 

“I don’t know,” Stiles said with a shrug that had Derek chasing the ripples of Stiles’ shoulder muscles with his slick fingertips. “Maybe Deaton started out like me and ended up the way he is because of… well, who knows why.”

“I doubt it,” Derek said with a shrug. He pushed up onto his knees and rolled Stiles so he was face up. “He’s _never_ been overly helpful. You don’t just start out enthusiastic and shut it off. I can’t imagine _you_ ever not trying to be helpful, even after some terrible trauma.”

“Not to mention that we’ve been through all sorts of terrible trauma, and I’m just more determined than ever to be helpful,” Stiles pointed out, eyes sparkling as he grinned up at Derek.

“Yes, there is that,” Derek agreed. He poured more oil into his hands, then leaned over to start massaging Stiles’ chest. Stiles closed his eyes with a sigh and tipped his head back, and Derek only barely managed to resist bending down to bite at Stiles’ neck. 

Stiles waited until Derek’s hands were on his stomach before reaching up to tug Derek down. Derek let himself be pulled, keeping just enough weight off Stiles to keep from crushing him. He slid down Stiles’ now slick skin until they were face to face.

“What was your goal?” Derek asked him. 

“To find the line between magic that I _need_ to do versus magic that I just _want_ to do,” Stiles said. He ran his hands in gentle strokes down Derek’s back, expression thoughtful. “I mean, I thought having power would be awesome. And it is — except for the part where I can barely use it because of the three-fold law or whatever.”

“And you think that knowing when something is a want rather a need is going to help you cut back on unnecessary magic?” Derek asked, curious. Stiles wasn’t one for impulse control, after all.

“It can’t _hurt_ , that’s for sure,” Stiles said with a shrug. “What about you?”

Instead of answering right away, Derek brought his head down the last few inches to bring their mouths together and indulged in a long, slow, deep kiss that ended with them breathing each other’s air. 

“Not fair,” Stiles whispered, eyes closed and smile contented. “Distracting me like that.”

Derek laughed so quietly that it was barely a rumble in his chest, meant for Stiles to feel as much as hear. “You’re right. There are much better ways.” He brushed his lips over Stiles’ temple, then started working his way down to Stiles’ neck and chest, leaving only the faintest, barely-moist kisses behind. Stiles exhaled in delight, hands tightening on Derek’s shoulders as he slid his feet up to brace Derek with his knees. This had the probably-unintended side effect of bringing their hips into alignment, and Derek sucked in a breath as their cocks rubbed against each other.

But it didn’t turn into anything more than kisses and caresses as he and Stiles took comfort in the feel of their bodies sharing heat and skin contact. Stiles was an incredibly sensual and tactile creature, to whom gentle touches were far preferable to the sort of rough sex he’d originally been afraid Derek would want. The sensitivity had only increased when Stiles started using magic, when he learned to become even more in tune with every feeling and every touch, but Derek didn’t mind. Sex didn’t happen very often, and even when it did, it took a long time to build up to so that Stiles wasn’t so overwhelmed that he needed to stop. But that was okay. Their relationship was perfect the way it was, and Stiles was worth it.

 _So worth it_ , Derek thought contentedly when he finally rolled off Stiles, only to turn on his side and pull Stiles to his chest. They were both boneless with pleasure from kissing and loose with exhaustion from the long day. It was a pleasant sort of ache now though, born from the satisfaction of a day well-spent rather than the depression of a too-long winter. Derek felt the coming sunrise in his bones and glanced up at the clock, shocked to find it nearly 7:30 in the morning. 

“Stiles?” he asked, shaking his lover’s shoulder lightly.

“Hmm?”

Derek got out of the bed despite Stiles’ protests, and picked him up to carry over to the massive east-facing window that took up the A-frame wall at the back of their bedroom. He settled them on the loveseat Stiles had put there for his morning meditations, then covered them both up with the soft microfiber afghan that always hung on the back. The sky was bright with the pinks, oranges, and reds of a northern California sunrise, and Stiles pressed a grin into Derek’s neck as he realized what they were doing.

“We made it through the longest night. Go us,” Stiles joked, eyes heavy with sleep.

Derek nodded, then handed Stiles his charm bottle. “Want to see my goal?”

Stiles hesitated, a look of confusion on his face. “I don’t want to break the charm.”

“Well, since you’re the only one who can make it happen, you should probably take a peek anyway,” Derek replied with a soft smile.

When Stiles took the bottle, it was with a steady hand but a look of trepidation. He cracked the wax seal and pulled out the cork just as the first edge of the sun rose above the horizon. Moments later he had the scroll unfurled, a grin splitting his face as he read the words.

“Hell yes,” he said matter-of-factly, twisting to kiss Derek. “Imbolc, the next sabbat, is a great time for handfasting ceremonies.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fic previews, eye candy, prompt fills, and gpoy galore [on my Tumblr](http://bootsnblossoms.tumblr.com/).


End file.
